


memories of grace

by orphan_account



Series: this is the end [4]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Episode: s05e04 The End, M/M, POV Castiel, POV Second Person
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-03
Updated: 2014-01-03
Packaged: 2018-01-07 08:50:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 540
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1117930
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The memory of you, who you used to be, lies scattered on the floor like the feathers you used to have.</p>
            </blockquote>





	memories of grace

**Author's Note:**

> Sorry this is so short; I just wanted to write something endverse. This is also kinda stream-of-conciousness.

When you come to, your head is pounding, but you ignore the familiar feeling to see him in the bed next to you, still asleep. You know that if you move, if you make a sound, he’ll be awake in a moment and then he’ll be gone again.

You don’t want him to be gone again.

It hurts because you know why he leaves; know that it’s because of you. The memory of you, who you used to be, lies scattered on the floor like the feathers you used to have. The memory of the you he loves; the memory of the you you wish you could still be. It’s the memories of grace that drive him away; they’re the ones that block the windows and fill up the room to the rafters until you’re drowning in them.

And so you watch him sleep, deep breaths moving his chest up and down, and you breathe in the smell of the room and it’s the combined scent of both you and him. Gunpowder and clove cigarettes, lost hope and good intentions.

Even in sleep, his face is guarded. You can’t read the lines of it anymore, not like you used to; his thoughts are a mystery to you, and you can’t even use your knowledge of him to help you along. Not anymore. Because this is a man you don’t know lying in the bed next to you, a man who never gave you the chance, who fell in love with you so long ago that you’re not even the same person you were then and he isn’t, either.

As the light of the sun filters in through the window, illuminating the dust motes that dive and swirl, twist and turn and float, you think to yourself that maybe you should’ve both given this up before it started. You begin to think that maybe this isn’t worth it; maybe the pain it causes you both is too great. And just like every morning when you think the same thoughts, you dismiss them as they come into your mind. Because you know that there’s no other choice; no other way. He was your island during the end of the world; your centre; the only point of light you could see for miles and miles, and you selfishly wouldn’t (couldn’t) give that up for anything.

And when the thoughts get too much, when they start to close in on you and the pounding in your head gets too loud and you start to think about the past, you lean over him and you grab a cigarette off the nightstand. He groans and tries to push you off sleepily, without much effort behind his blows, and you just chuckle and move to your back.

He complains about the smoke as you light up, so you puff it into the air above your head and laugh a little more, though the sound is anything but happy. He pushes out of bed and starts to pull on his clothes, and you just watch.

As he starts to leave you, the same way that he does every morning ever hour every minute, you miss him. You miss him most when he’s standing right in front of you.


End file.
